


Cookie's Ficmas Stories

by cookiethewriter



Category: Original Work, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Multi, NOT. INCEST., Sibling Bonding, the return of DEADBEAT!VERSE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 07:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13829751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiethewriter/pseuds/cookiethewriter
Summary: a collection of prompts written around christmastime using a list of prompts on tumblr.





	1. "yeah, uh, alcohol doesn't go in hot chocolate." kat/omc

**Author's Note:**

> it was supposed to be 12 stories, but i ended up getting sick (for a month and a half, and my vocal range suffered for it. kinda sucks but whatcanyado.) so here, have 3.
> 
> first one's an original work. you can skip it if you want. i know y'all came for the Other things. (but if you happen to read this one, i hope you like it!)

The last thing Kristian expects to see in his office is the very thing he ends up seeing.

On the one hand, he knew that his oldest-younger sister was antsy around the holidays, for reasons he hadn’t ever felt the need to ask about knowing full-well that she wouldn’t answer. Whether it was the universal for Why Kat Is Bad At Coping Mechanisms (his father – _their_ – deserting her and her sister – _his, too_ – before they were even born) or something else, he figured that in time he might figure it out.

But she’s wandering around, mostly in front of the large window, overlooking the long gray parking lot and just … murmuring to herself. Not unlike her, sometimes to work through things she _has_ to talk herself through it, but most of the time he can’t really make sense of what she’s saying. This time? He’s a little glad he can.

“ _..._ _going to hate me, I shouldn’t have said yes, I should have-_ ”

“Um, Katelina? Can I get you anything? … maybe a new cell phone so you can call me and let me know you’re coming?”

Kat jumps – actually _jumps_ , and it takes a lot to rock her like that – and turns to look at Kristian; her eyes, gray but also icy-blue, are wide and glassy, and her bottom lip is snagged in her front teeth. Her hair, usually in a neat ponytail or down around her face, is in a bun neat enough only to keep hair out of her eyes … which makes him almost laugh, because her bangs are _very_ in her eyes.

“Kris! Damn it, don’t scare me!”

Anyone who knew them knew they were an unlikely duo, with Kat not in good spirits with her – _their_ – father except if she actually _had_ some good spirits in a glass in front of her, but after she had gotten over the shock of having a surprise older half-brother, she had warmed up to him. Well, a few years later, anyway. But they were fairly close now, close enough that when she had a problem that her best friend just couldn’t help her with – rare as it was – he found her in his office, or on his doorstep.

Usually with a phone call, however. That’s what made this different.

“’Don’t scare’ you?” He can’t help it. That laugh just bubbles out of him like a burp, “Who’s the one that showed up in my office unannounced, again?”

A pout replaces the frazzled expression on her face – or, perhaps, piles onto it – and her nose wrinkles. Folding her arms across herself, she looks away. “You going to help me, or not?”

Heaving a feigned long-suffering sigh, he peels off his jacket – he had decided to take a walk downtown, now that it was December and the town was all decked-out at its storefronts with lights and garland and smiles – and hangs it on the coat rack by the door. He holds out his hand to get her jacket, too, before he narrows his eyes in much the same way that a(n involved) father might look at his child when he knew they did something. “You … You didn’t wear a jacket here?”

And, now that he really took her in, she was only in a pair of jeans and a green sweater. A zip-up hoodie is about the only other garment she’s wearing, on top of her sweater – other than her boots, of course, her black combat boots that she wears for almost any and every occasion – and her fingers have started anxiously zipping it up and down in short movements. In an act of sympathy, he walks over and places his hand over hers and squeezes.

“Alright. I’ve finished nagging. Out with it, then.”

On the outward perspective, it seemed perhaps harsh, but Kat always responded better to directness than anything else. It’s comfortable ground, anyway, so when he says this, she visibly relaxes and drops her hands to her sides. It looks like she’s trying not to swing them around, just to give herself something to do. Holding his hand out toward one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, he watches as she ducks in front of him and drops into it unceremoniously.

“He invited me to his parents’ for Christmas.”

Kristian’s head whips in her direction. “Really?”

For someone who always tried to make herself bigger, badder by a means of protection, she looked particularly small on the chair, drawn in with help from her arms wrapping back around her. Kristian hadn’t really ever seen her like this that he could remember. Walking around to sit on the edge of his desk, he waits, because he knows Kat will want to gather her bearing for a second.

It takes about a minute, but she speaks up again. “And I love his parents – I’ve met them, and his sisters, but...”

Inclining his head in the start of a nod, Kristian says, “Ah. You’re concerned that you’re crossing a line by saying yes? You actually believe that, knowing that his little sister is your best friend?”

“You got anything hot to drink?” Kat asks suddenly. “I’m fucking freezing.”

“Language.” He admonishes. At least he can assume she isn’t too frazzled to forget who she is, because she brushes him off with a scoff.

“English.” She mocks.

“I have tea and coffee, both decaf,” Kat _actually_ scowls at him at that, and he simply focuses on remembering if he restocked the K-cups for the Keurig on the far counter. “I might have hot chocolate. Help yourself.”

Kat gets up, doesn’t say anything, and does this little jog to grab what she wants. He never quite finds out what she gets, her back to him, but she comes back over when she’s brewed whatever and sits back in the chair, bringing it to her lips.

“Mm … it needs a little ...” she starts, and he tilts his head slightly. “It’s … do you have anything … _else_ to drink?”

“Else? What do...” Three. Two. “Yeah, uh, alcohol doesn’t go in hot chocolate.”

“That’s stupid – how else am I supposed to get through the holidays inconspicuously?”

This brings a laugh out of Kristian. “I guess you’ll have to go to his parents’ house and find out, right?”

Pouting isn’t something Kat does when one of the problems she has is more serious, so to see her do it means that she was feeling better about it. “I hate when you’re right.” A beat, then she points her finger in his face. “That _doesn’t_ mean I’m not. But _fine._ ”

Getting up from the chair, Kat does her best impression of a fussy businesswoman, straightening out her sweatshirt and zipping it up before handing him her half-drank hot chocolate. “Well, it’s been real, but I guess I have things to see, people to do-”

“Don’t you mean...” Shakes his head, because he really, honestly, does not want to know. “You know what? No. Never mind. Let me know how it goes, okay?”

Kat looks a little too happy with herself, that she made him a tad uncomfortable, before she leans in to give him a one-armed hug. “I will. Let me know how things go for you at Bruce’s, too.”

The two separate and Kris bids her farewell, intent on going back to work. Of course, he barely gets into his chair and brings the cup to his lips to finish the rest of the warm cocoa. First, it slides down pleasantly, but when a funky aftertaste and lingering warmth accompany it, he chokes on it in his throat and dumps the emptied cup into his trash bin.

“Kat!” He bellows, even if he’s pretty sure she’s not in earshot anymore. “I thought we said no alcohol in hot chocolate!”

He sure of it: somewhere, someplace, she’s doubled-over laughing.


	2. "does this stocking have my name on it?" romox, deadbeat!verse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WAS TOO EXCITED TO WRITE THIS ONE. i mean, good lord, who'da thunk i'd miss this dumb little universe so much? mmmmmmmy rarepair is so good. ;-; hope you enjoy!

The sound of footsteps rouses Roman from what had been a sound sleep, and a peer-over at his alarm clock and a look out the window confirms that, yes, Joelle Reigns was awake before sunrise on Christmas morning.

Not that that was terribly out of character for her at all, especially today, but it was just _barely_ today and he wanted to maybe at _least_ enjoy the warmth of his bed for a few more minutes before he would be subjected to the cool air of not-his-bed. Rolling onto his back from side, which causes his arm to slip off the waist it had been perched around in kind, he drags his hands down his face and rubs his fingers into his eyes by means of waking himself up. Just in time to hear the doorknob jostle, squeak when it turned, and the door to open.

It’s a good two seconds of silence, which was never a good sign, before be braces for impact.

_Three …_

_Two …_

“Daddy! Moxxy!” JoJo’s voice is all whispered-excitement, and even though he wants to be annoyed that he’s up at fuck-all o’clock, he can’t help but smile wide up at his baby girl. “It’s Christmas! Wake up!”

Letting out a groan that was purely for theatrical purposes - “ _Uuuuuuuugh..._ ” - he wraps one arm around her and cuddles her to his chest, rolling back onto his side, intent on keeping her sandwiched between himself and the waking Mox, who is making his fair-share of noises that aren’t necessarily the same as Roman’s. “Baby girl … bedtime. Five more minutes.”

“ _Daddy!_ ” It’s a shriek gift-wrapped in laughter, and she squirms. Roman’s response to this is a loud snore, more theatrics, and she only squirms harder before the two pause and look at each other. JoJo giggles, which sets Roman off, the two sharing an equally-giggly moment before the bed gives as someone who isn’t just _someone_ anymore rolls around and faces them with a tired, somewhat-grumpy expression.

“You two are the _worst._ ”

Father and daughter only manage to beam in unison, and while Mox would have loved to stay mad, he gives in a lot faster than he used to and reaches to tickle at JoJo’s sides. She rolls around, away from Roman, before her hands start feebly batting at Mox’s fingers to get him to stop. This gives Roman time to fish around the ground for his pajama pants – he’s glad it was too dark for her to see they were there and not on him – and slips them on under the blanket before slipping out of bed. He turns the bedside lamp on so he could grab his Georgia Tech tee shirt and slip it on too, and in doing so, he hears the dual-groans and the rustling of the comforter. Turning around, he sees they’d pulled it over their heads.

“Ooooh, no you don’t,” he says, voice a rumble in his throat, “You don’t get to come in here and wake us up, then hide in the dark.”

One hand presses into one side of the lump, the other on the other side, and without much warning he presses over and over, making the mattress squeak as he bounces them both on the bed. JoJo’s a big fan, laughing and flapping her arm out of the cocoon to hold onto his arm, while Mox’s “Nooooo!” rings out above the springs and makes Roman only do it a little harder before he tears the blanket up off of them.

Mox’s hair is all over the place, while Joelle’s face is flushed pink with laughter, and honestly, Roman’s pretty sure he’s never seen a more perfect sight.

* * *

Corralling the two into the living room is easier when JoJo gets an eyeful of the colorful mountain of gifts in front of the tree, which sends her running down the hallway. It was _the other one_ who decided he needed a little more inspiration, and while the promise of coffee and cinnamon rolls had certainly gotten him out of bed, it had taken more … creative means to get him to put sweatpants on.

While he set to making the coffee and preheating the oven, he watched as JoJo made Mox sit on the floor with her – he’d recently gotten off a tour on the West coast, so he probably would have preferred the couch, but he sat with her with no arguments outside a wince he probably thought nobody noticed – and chatted excitedly about all the colors on the wrapper and wondered if he was a ‘good boy this year’.

To which, he says, “’course I was! These’re all mine!”

Roman snorts. Without missing a beat, Mox points at him and says, “Ah-ah! Don’t say _nothin’._ ”

“Moxxy! These are _miiiiine_ , see?” Still, JoJo goes through the motions of showing him that the first few in the front all have her name penned on the sticker, and he is quick to tell her she was wrong, that that’s a nickname for _Jon_ , but she just laughs at him. “It isn’t! You’re _Moxxy._ ”

When coffee is made and he carries over a mug to Mox – black with enough sugar to send a normal person into a sugar coma, the weirdo – he beckons to the stockings on the loveseat and grins. “Why don’t you start with those?”

JoJo and Mox look at the same time to see three stockings filled to the brim, and JoJo surges towards them, pulling them to her chest like they were precious treasure. Dropping Mox’s into his lap unceremoniously then sitting to open her own, she misses the surprised look on his face, but Roman, who’s a master of watching and gauging reactions, does not.

Putting down his coffee and turning the filled stocking in his hands, he looks at Roman, confused.

“Does this stocking have my name on it?”

A smile pulls at his lips, but Roman covers it with his coffee cup as he takes a sip of his only slightly-sweet coffee. “ _Ahh._ I dunno, does it?”

“… I ain’t a kid,” mutters Mox, who cautiously looks into it and fiddles with a giant candy cane that’s sticking out of it. Roman isn’t bothered by his behavior, sitting down on the couch behind him and picking up his coffee so it wouldn’t spill. Setting it on the end table, he leans his elbows on his knees.

“No, but I wanted you to be included in … this.” Gesturing at JoJo, they look together at how excited she gets over everything she pulls out, the pen with the fuzzy topper and the candy and the gift cards to her favorite shops in town. “Sorry, Jon, but you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

_Included._ That’s one way to put it. They’d had few conversations of Mox’s childhood, even after they _became_ a ‘they’, and he knew enough to conclude that Mox hadn’t really had the kind of Christmas that he had, or JoJo, or literally anyone else. With virtually no parents, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to really enjoy his childhood or life thereafter at all, really, so Roman was more than willing to do what he could now.

Granted, he was in a much better place now and didn’t _need_ it, but as Roman watches him carefully finger through the sweets to pull out a couple small gift-wrapped things, he can only imagine he’s doing far-more good than anyone else had thought to give.

Chewing on his lips, Mox takes the longer present in his hands and just … holds it, shakes it a little, before he digs at the folded wrapping. A small white box is left, and he runs his fingers along the KOHL’s lettering on the top, before he opens it slowly, like whatever is inside will jump out at him.

“...oh.”

Roman knows what it is, but he can’t help trying to look over his shoulder at it against Mox’s pale skin, though he gets a better eyeful of it when Mox turns around and raises himself onto his knees to look at Roman eye-to-eye. His eyes are a little hard to pin an emotion to, so all Roman does is offer a little grin and be patient; while on the tour before this one, his chain necklace had gotten broken during a match, just snapped off, and it had upset Mox because it was the one nice something he’d ever owned. And granted, Mox had had admitted that he’d bought it cheap somewhere, but he’d bought it with his first paycheck, so it had had sentimental value. For it to just … _break_ so easily…

...but this one was sturdier, the links were thicker and made of stainless steel, which was both more durable and hypoallergenic. It’d last longer than the necklace before it.

Something had snapped in Mox then, and for a split second, Roman could see the exact moment his heart swelled to the point of making his eyes tear up before he had launched at Roman, wrapping one arm around his neck while his other hand clutched the necklace to his chest, his _heart._ Roman wrapped his arm around his back, laughing softly, rubbing up and down Mox’s back as he held on.

“This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done f’me.” His voice is so quiet, and when he sniffs and leans back, he just keeps looking at the necklace. “Why the fuck.”

“Language,” he says, first, before he picks Mox’s face up with a finger crooked under his chin. “And secondly, your reaction. You deserve nice things.”

A ‘no I don’t’ would have followed that statement perhaps a year ago, but they were far-less serious then, hadn’t been living together then. Now, all Mox can do is stare at it, then look back up and pass a kiss to the side of his mouth before he sits back down, pulling his knees up and watching JoJo go through the rest of her stocking.

“Here, let me,” Roman sets his coffee cup down, holds his hand out for the necklace, and Mox passes it to him; his hair is just long enough that he has to raise some of it off his neck so Roman can see where to clip it, and once he has it on securely, he leans in to place a kiss to the shell of Moxley’s ear.

“Merry Christmas, Jon.”


	3. "ho ho ho, bitch"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and finally, children: ambreigns. thanks for reading.

Roman had a lot on his plate right now, being the holiday season and all. The last thing he wanted to be doing was having another argument with his father, same old same old, but here he was with a few choice words stuck on the edge of his tongue that would surely taper off before the end of the conversation.

The two were at odds, again. They’d been at it for so long that Roman was pretty sure he couldn’t even remember what they were arguing about, but the last thing he was going to do was fold when his father was rubbing salt in the wound of his eventual defeat.

That’s when it kind of slipped out of him, in the heat of the argument, his voice meant to cut like jagged glass across his father’s face.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather just stay here anyway!”

“ _What are you talking about?_ ” Pop always had this way of talking to him like he was disobeying a command, like he wasn’t his son. “ _Of course you’re coming home. Your mother would be heartbroken if you--_ ”

“For once, can ya not with the guilt trip?” The door to his shared-apartment opened, revealing his disheveled roommate covered in snow, his light hair dusted with white and pale face red from the cold. If he weren’t so pissed off, he might have smiled at him, before he spoke in a hushed tone. “I gotta go. I’ll call mom later.”

“ _Roman, do not ha--_ ”

_Click._

“Hey, Rome,” his roommate, Dean Ambrose, pulled off his sweatshirt with all the grace of a newborn deer, nearly tripping on his own feet in an attempt to do more moving than his achy body would allow. “Everything good? Ya good?”

“Good,” Roman stood up just in time to see what was like sheets of wet snow falling onto the mat in front of the door. “Done with work already? It’s only 5pm.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugs, dismissive, but forcibly so. Roman files that away for a later time, and instead goes to turn on the electric heater in the corner of the room to flash-dry the sweatshirt. “With Christmas and all a few days away, the boss wanted me to get a few days rest--”

Roman looks over his shoulder, concerned. “Shoulder again?”

“Knee.”

“Dean, if you would--”

“Can we skip the lecture this time?” Dean groused, grumping and pouting his way over to the couch, his shoes untied but not off as he kicked his legs out at the old coffee table he’d brought with him from his last place. Makes Roman frown, but it’s such a short feeling that no one pays any mind, and once the heater clicks on and starts casting off warmth, he aims it over in the direction of Dean’s soiled garment and makes it oscillate so it can reach the man himself, too.

“Sorry.”

The two are quiet, just for a beat, to let that exchange die in the dirt with the remnants of Roman’s patience. Sighing and resigning himself to his best friend’s special brand of quiet, he sits beside him and leans his head on his shoulder. Dean wastes no time in relaxing into it, letting Roman lay where he wants.

“That was a doozy, yeah? You really okay?”

Roman sighs through his nose and adjusts to get comfortable. “D, I don’t even know what we were arguing about. He kept pushing and I told him I wasn’t comin’ home. The fuck is wrong with me?”

When Dean’s lips smoosh against the side of his head, he feels tension ooze out of him; they were closer than most siblings, family that they got to choose for themselves, and this brand of closeness was something they didn’t have with anyone else. Their friends said they were a couple without the label, and while Roman never said no, he certainly didn’t agree wholly. They were just ‘them’, and that’s all that mattered.

“Well, I don’t really wanna go home this year.” Dean somehow finds the energy to kick off his work boots, his wool socks baggy around his feet. They kept in the smell of his boy’s feet, which was nice also, in addition to keeping him from losing a toe or two to frostbite. Roman finds himself staring at a loose string hanging off the side of it. Doesn’t really hear the words Dean had said, but he settles in anyway.

But Dean says something additionally, one Roman thought he might have heard, but he sits up slightly to level Dean with a curious look. “Come again?”

“I said, we could have our own Christmas?” Raising an eyebrow, Dean cracks a little smile, blue eyes sparkling like Christmas lights. “Could like, order Chinese and watch those dumb movies ya quote all the time – Grinch is good, though, love me some Grinch – an’ just...” He seems to let his voice trickle away to something more quiet. Shy, almost, if such a thing could be attributed to a guy like Dean.

Roman considers it though, knows that they two have their reasons for wanting to stay as far away from their homes right now. What better way to spend a holiday than with your boy?

Dean is just … waiting for Roman to respond, his expression morphing from something like excitement to caution. “If … if ya don’t want-”

“I never said I didn’t want to,” Roman says quickly, then starts nodding his head. “I actually think that’s a brilliant idea. No one I’d rather kick it with than my boy.”

The excitement is back, making Dean beam. Like he had just found the solution to world hunger or had saved a million orphans from a fire or something equally as amazing. Smiling back in kind, Roman reaches over to ruffle at his boy’s hair before laying his head down again.

* * *

Roman ignores his father’s phone call a couple days later – Christmas Eve - choosing instead to roll the rest of the sugar cookie dough; he had sent Dean out to pick up a couple of things from the store, mainly mundane things like toilet paper and jugs of water – they had a well in the backyard, which meant they couldn’t drink the tap water without a filter, and they hadn’t bought one yet – and had immediately started on his mother’s recipe for cookies. She had had to walk him through it over FaceTime, but he had his mother’s love of cooking. It was easy to pick up on it.

His mom avoided the topic of his father and his decision to stay, instead saying how nice it was that he was going to start a tradition or two with Dean. Roman had smiled, not picking anything odd out in her tone. “ _You’ll have to bring him by one day so he doesn’t have to avoid my hugs anymore,_ ” she said cheerily, before reminding him to preheat the oven.

By the time he had hung up with Mom and finished the last batch of cookies, Dean had come back, several plastic bags of groceries and, what looked like, several bags of things they probably _didn’t_ need but he picked up anyway. A peppermint stick was sticking out of his mouth, and as he spoke, his teeth kept it in place.

“Ho ho ho, bitch,” he drops the bags in front of the kitchen sink, just next to where Roman was standing. “I got us some boring shit and some fun shit.” He starts unpacking it, passing Roman the stuff that goes in the fridge, including- “Beer, for my brotha.”

A quirk of his lips, then Roman sticks the two 6-packs into the fridge. “Thanks, _uce._ The best brother a guy could ask for.”

“Dude, you made cookies!”

As it always does, Roman’s heart sinks just a little at Dean’s blatant brush-off of his proclamation, but that was Dean. Aloof asshole. “Yeah, had Mom walk me through the recipe. Gonna frost ‘em later.”

“Dude, hell yeah!” Dean reaches for one, despite having just heard Roman say ‘later’, and Roman lets him because … well. Because hell, it’s Christmas, or something.

“Just one. Save the rest. Gonna call mom back in a bit to get her recipe for frosting.”

“You could have called me to pick some up,” Dean picks the oddest scenarios to show he cares, but he doesn’t elaborate on what he says more, doesn’t say ‘so you don’t have to do all the work’ but Roman has known Dean long enough to read more than just between the lines. He’s an open book, even if he’s also aloof. An enigma, was Dean Ambrose, but Roman wouldn’t have it any other way. So he shrugs.

“Nah. Her frosting recipe’s pretty dynamite. Think you’ll like it.”

Dean smiles, dimples making an appearance. “Killer. Fer’ now, I’m gonna make us a couple sammiches and let’s go watch some ‘toons.”

“You got it.”

* * *

The rest of the night goes on without a hitch, and the decorating turns out much more fun with Dean than he’d thought. Granted, the idiot had given most of the gingerbread people boobs and had turned a couple candy canes into dicks, but it had made Roman laugh, and they’d each decorated all they could before they found themselves crumpled up on the couch, a beer in each hand, each in their own states of messiness – Roman wasn’t sure how Dean got frosting on his face – but laughing and content.

The house was only slightly-festive on the inside, with a small Christmas tree tucked into the corner and a mismatched set of colored-white lights zigzagging around the similarly-mismatched ornaments. Roman remembered shopping for the ornaments, how Dean had picked out a bunch of glass ones that looked hand-painted while Roman pointed out sets of white and silver and blue, and he had laughed when Dean put the glass balls into the cart, trying to gently tell his best friend that they weren’t getting them.

“ _Okay, okay, but hear me out,_ ” Dean had defended, holding up a yellow glass bobble that had a sleigh with a dog perched on its seat painted over it, “ _These are way better._ ”

“ _They don’t even match!_ ”

They’d ended up getting a few of Dean’s favorites and a set of silver multi-shaped ornaments, compromise, and he thinks it looks better that way. As he sits in the living room, waiting for Dean to come back from whatever he was doing in his room, he can’t help but think they hadn’t done too badly for two dudes on a fixed income and with clashing styles. The ornaments Dean had showed him, the yellow one, was in the middle, and was his favorite for sure.

The dog reminded him a lot like--

“Alright, fuck, that was a pain in the ass.” Dean comes back, hair dripping and disheveled and sweatpants hanging low on his hips, brandishing a black gift bag with pink tissue paper sticking out of it. “Ignore the paper, everyone took the good colors, but figured ya wouldn’t mind anyhow.” Dropping the bag unceremoniously onto Roman’s lap, he plops down beside him and tucks his legs in like he’s trying not to take up too much space.

(For a man over 6-feet tall, it should be difficult, but he folds himself effortlessly.)

“Don’t wanna wait for tomorrow, huh?”

Dean’s started tapping his fingers on his knees, a nervous tic, and was doing all he could not to look up at Roman. Odd. “N...no. Not this one. Jus’ open it.”

“I should get my gift for--” Roman had started to get up, because he’d got Dean something too, but before he could get any further than the edge of the couch, Dean scrambled up – literally scrambled, little grace to be seen – and pushed him back with one hand, swung his leg over him and practically straddled him. “-D, what are you-”

“Will ya just open it?”

Unperturbed by the sudden closeness, he raises an eyebrow and wiggles experimentally against Dean’s hand. When it’s about as unwavering as Dean’s gaze, he sighs and settles in, looking into the bag and reaching inside. Inside it was a card and a tiny wrapped something, and before Roman could say anything, Dean reached over and grabbed his glasses.

“Read that first.”

Dean Ambrose was not a mushy-gushy person, so for Roman to expect some card with a dirty joke on it or something wasn’t totally out of the question. Quirking his lips, he opens the envelope and feels Dean get off of him, hears him walk a bit behind him and dig something out of somewhere. The envelope just has his name, _Roman_ , scrawled in Dean’s atrocious handwriting, and he takes great care in making sure he doesn’t rip it as he gets the card out.

_Thank you_ it reads. Tilting his head, he opens it, and it’s … mostly Dean’s handwriting, from the back of the cover to the other page:

 

_Roman -_

_Before you say anything, just know that this was Plan M, and that Plans A through L are not to be heard from, ever._

_I ain’t good at words, but this is a thank-you. For a lot of things, but mostly, thanks for never giving up on me. I talk myself in circles and can’t really stay out of trouble, and for some reason, the first words out of your mouth aren’t “I’m sorry, he’s crazy, that’s all”. Always was curious about that._

 

“Dean, what--”

“Shut up. Keep goin’.”

 

\-- _Now that I think about it, thanks for not callin’ me crazy. You know the crazy shitstorm of exes I’ve had that have said I’m nuts, I’m paranoid, I care too much or too little, and you’re still here. Makes me think there might not be something wrong with me after all. Kinda not used to that._

_Thanks for showing me what it felt like to be cared about. Didn’t really get that growin up, didn’t have friends that were willing to bail me out or. Take care of me when I got the flu, or. When we went to Europe for New Years with Tony and you held my hand ‘cause I was freaked by the shaking of the plane_ (Roman has to stop reading and smile, because he knows Dean probably didn’t know how to spell ‘turbulence’ and was too proud to ask) _and you kept tellin me it was okay. No one’s ever done that for me before._

_Thank you for laughing at my jokes. I know they’re bad. You tell me they’re bad, but you still laugh. Does good for my ego, so feel free to do that some more in the future._

 

Roman rolls his eyes, and as if he knows exactly which part he’s at, Dean smacks the top of his head. All Roman manages is a “Watch the hair,” before he goes back to reading.

 

– _I know the word ‘future’ freaks me out a lot of the time, but if I’m being honest, it’s cuz when I think about it, you’re always there with me. When I think about when I get my first dog, you’re there, smilin over my shoulder. When I think about wakin up and the sun is in my face and I roll over to get away from it, it’s your tangled nest of hair in my face and your sweet conditioner in my nose. Your, you, it’s you and the future is a lot less scary when I accepted that._

 

Roman’s hand covers his mouth. He can’t think of a single coherent response.

 

_I bet you’re freaking out, and to be honest, I wouldn’t blame you. I don’t think I’d have it in me. But if you give me one final minute, one final thank you, I’ll accept any reaction._

 

Roman reads the next part so fast, he’s not sure it really gets absorbed in his head. He’s standing up before he can think of what he wants to do once he _is_ up, and when he lifts his eyes up, he fumbles with the card and it falls at his feet on the carpet.

 

\-- _Thank you for being you, Roman. I learned at a young age that I couldn’t trust anybody, that everybody would turn their backs on me, but you took that shit and stomped on it, tore it with your teeth, and told me that I had more worth than anyone you’d ever met. You taught me that I don’t have to trust everyone, but I could you, and I do. When I’m around you, I feel at ease. I don’t remember feeling that with anybody before. So if by the end of this, you want out, wanna kick me out … fine. I get it. But know that there will never be another ‘you’ for me. So._

_Thank you,_

_DA_

 

Dean’s looking at him, his expression expectant, like he’s waiting for the punch to land or the other boot to drop. He doesn’t look like he’s got it in him to fight back if such were to happen, and Roman doesn’t think he’s got it in him to do it anyway. He’d never gotten a thank you note before, but he’d gotten love letters, and if he didn’t know any better … not that he’s love-stupid, but … it _sounded_ like--

“Dean … why, no … how …?”

“I ain’t a good talker, but I think I said everything I wanted to.” It’s odd to see him so … open, so vulnerable, when Roman was on the other end. Roman’s speechless, but is walking toward him, crossing the distance until he can put his hands on Dean’s shoulders. Dean twitches under his fingers, waiting.

He’s not expecting Roman to lean in. Roman’s not expecting Dean’s lips to smell like cheap cherry chapstick. Dean’s hands wrap behind his neck and he, honestly, doesn’t know which one of them pulls him closer, but Dean is closer and his soap left him smelling soft and kissing someone has never felt so natural to Roman before.

It’s not a long kiss, not something that pulls the breath from his lungs, but rather by the end of it, Roman’s pretty sure he’s never breathed better. Dean’s cheeks are just-rosy, his eyes looking for something on Roman’s face, and Roman’s honestly never seen him clearer before.

Licking his lips, he says, soft into the room. “This makes what I got you look so fucking lame.”

When Dean smiles, his dimples come out to play, and it makes the lights shining on his face glimmer on the new planes of his face. Roman thought he was beautiful. “Yeah, you did say you got me somethin’. Though I’m pretty sure, if it ain’t too dumb to say, I got all I need already.”

“Fucking cheese-wheel,” Roman says, eyes crinkling with the pull of his smile, “Merry Christmas, D.”

Peeking over at the clock on the cable box, Dean confirms it’s after midnight already, which meant it was technically Christmas morning. He feels good all over, though the time is catching up with him, and he feels Roman pull him back to the couch and sit him down. They get comfortable, with Roman leaning his head on his shoulder and Dean’s arm linked with his, and he whispers back,

“Merry Christmas.”


End file.
